


His Heartbeat, Her Firelight

by Kitamere



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, King's Landing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 15:41:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3073310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitamere/pseuds/Kitamere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sandor is wounded in a tourney, Sansa tends to his wounds and keeps him warm.  One-shot, King's Landing era.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Heartbeat, Her Firelight

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this during National Novel Writing Month as a distraction from the longer piece I was working on when it was getting to me. Please don't take this one too seriously, it was just a bit of fun for me. :)

**SANDOR**

    Sandor Clegane woke up feeling particularly _well_.

    Consciousness came slowly to him; blearily, he felt he must have slept for a long time.

    Yet, somehow he was not concerned that he had somewhere else he needed to be.  He was not still drowsy, nor grouchy upon waking, as he sometimes was.  He was not in pain.  He was not stomach-sick.  He was not hungover.

    And he was not alone.

    This last was a shock.  A jolt went through him upon the realization that yes, he was not imagining it; there was a warm body resting against him, pressed against his chest and _breathing_.

    Sandor opened his eyes, very slowly.

    Sunlight was streaming in through the windows of his room.  He was in his own bed, in his room in the Red Keep.  Right at his eye-level, on his own pillow, was a long tangle of auburn hair.

    His heart was suddenly beating very fast.  At the same time, he realized several other things.  He was naked from the waist up, wearing only (it would seem) cloth breeches that he did not remember wearing when he was falling asleep.

    He realized he did not _remember_ falling asleep.

    _Seven hells._  The Stark girl. . . in his bed. . . too real to be a dream. . .

    What had happened?  If he had dishonored her, his head would be on a spike before sundown.  His mind frantically sought for something solid to hold on to; all he could think was what a fucking pity it would be if he had spent such a night - a night to die for - and not remembered any of it.

    Yet even as he thought this, other sensations came to him.  He could smell the medicine she had used on his wound.  He could smell the blood on the bandages that now littered the floor.  And he could see, if he tilted his head down slightly, that the girl was still wearing a long white shift.

    And, _fuck_ , his cock was painfully hard against her thigh.

    He hadn’t woken erect but the feel of her body against him, the smell of her hair, and the sound of her quiet breathing all mingled into a heady distraction.  If she woke now, she would probably scream.

    _The Tournament_.  Very slowly, as if coming through a fog, he recalled the events of the past several days.  That fucking melee against the Dornishman.  He had won, but he’d received a small flesh wound that he’d been too stubborn to have looked at by anyone.

    The girl was the only one who had noticed it.  She had followed him around, a persistent little bird, until he had weakened and allowed her to see.  By that time, it must have already begun to fester.

    Odd that it didn’t pain him now.  How long had he been bedridden?

    Against his chest, the girl stirred.  Had his thundering heartbeat woken her?  He shifted to look down at her.  Her eyelashes fluttered open.  She made a soft, throaty noise and lifted a small hand to rub her eyes.  Then she looked up, directly into his face.

    Sandor Clegane had withstood scores, no, hundreds of men in combat.  He’d walked away from every battle he’d ever fought.  Yet meeting the eyes of Sansa Stark, lying helpless in his bed, made him break out into a cold sweat.

    Her perfect rose-bud lips slowly formed a smile.

    For an instant, he felt a dizzying sensation of falling - but only for an instant.  The very next moment, a knock came at the door, and the thundering of his heart came to a crashing halt.

    The girl’s eyes widened.  “It’s my Septa,” she whispered to him, rising away from him and swiftly gathering up her dress from where it had lain on the floor.  She pulled the dress on in one quick motion, adjusted it, then lifted up the blankets that had apparently fallen off the bed in the night, and unceremoniously threw them over him.  Sandor could only gape at her as she smoothed her hair, adjusted her dress one last time, and opened the door.

    The girl bid her Septa a good morning, and the large woman bustled into the room, carrying a covered basket.

    “Ah!” the Septa said.  “So our charge is awake?”

    He couldn’t remember the bloody woman’s name.  He merely grunted at her.

    “I brought fresh linen bandages, and more milk of the poppy, for the pain,” she said.

    The girl had taken a seat in a chair that had been brought to the bedside.  “I changed his bandages again just before dawn.  The, erm. . . oozing seemed to have stopped,” she said.

    Sandor’s head was spinning.

    “Ah, so our little nurse is learning!”  The Septa sounded proud.

    He abided the woman’s ministrations but refused the milk of the poppy.  The woman had also brought some food, which he found he had quite an appetite for.  After an age, with the woman still fussing and talking with the girl about his condition, he’d had enough.  “Leave me be, now, I’m perfectly fine.  I must get back to my duties.”

    Finally, the girl addressed him directly.  “The Queen has given you the rest of the week - as a reward for your performance in the tourney.  You do not have to return to duty, you just have to heal.”

    He couldn’t bring himself to look directly at her, not while her Septa was here - his body might betray him.  “I’ve been bedridden long enough.  I’ll heal in the fresh air of the training yard.”

    The little bird protested, but her Septa stood and suggested they let him be, as their herbs and poultices had clearly done their work.  She followed her Septa out of the room with a look over her shoulder at him - a look he could not quite read.  Alone at last, he washed his face and got dressed.

    Physically, he felt better than he did most days, after what must have been an unusually refreshing night of sleep.  He was excessively worried about what had passed between himself and the little bird, though, and he frowned with the effort of trying to remember.  He had some sense of having had vague, feverish dreams - but nothing solid or real occurred to him.

    He left for the training yard, but before making it all the way down the corridor, he ran into the little bird.  It was not entirely unexpected; he’d had the feeling she might be waiting for him.

    “How are you feeling, ser -” - she stopped herself - “um, Sand- that is, my lord Hound?”

    Her eyes were focused somewhere around his boots.

    “Sandor is fine,” he said, slowly.  “To you.  As it is my name.  And I’m fine, for all your attentions.”

    She nodded, and dared to look up so far as his chest.

    “Listen, girl,” he said.  “Last night -” - what could he possibly say to her about this?  And yet, he needed to know.  He sighed, started again.  “I don’t remember anything that happened last night.  Do you understand?  I need. . . I need you to tell me if we did anything.  Together.”

    He sounded like a pathetically mawkish child to his own ears.  But she finally looked up into his face.  Her eyes met his.  She flushed prettily.

    “Nothing,” she said, her eyes shining in a way that clearly meant, “ _something_.”  He gritted his teeth.

    She smiled at him, but not that secret smile he had seen this morning.  This was a smile he’d seen dozens of times at the court.  “Septa Mordane says that she and I will check on your wound again later tonight, but you seem to be healing at a good pace, se - S-Sandor.  Pray be careful in the training yards today.”  And she gave him a curtsey, and was gone.

    He stalked off to the training yard, deeply troubled.  Then again, the girl was so innocent that “something” to her might be nothing so very bad at all.  And she hadn’t said anything to her Septa about him violating her - indeed, from the way she had dressed so quickly, she seemed eager to keep whatever _had_ happened between only them.

    Sandor felt a warmth on his face and in his belly.  The little bird had smiled at him upon her waking . . . _Enough, you stupid old dog_.

    He had never woken next to a woman before.

  
  


**SANSA**

 

    Everything in her room looked different.  The colors seemed brighter, more cheerful somehow.  Alone at her dressing table, she pressed her hands to her cheeks and giggled.  She hadn’t been able to keep from smiling.

    She liked him.  She liked the Hound!  He was gentle and strong and brave, and even though he’d kept it a secret, she knew these things about him.  And now she felt as though they shared a sweet secret, just between them.

    She’d been so brash, so careless - all day she’d really acted in a way that was unlike her.  But she was so thrilled with this new feeling, this new power she held within her.  She desired a worthy man, and her adoration of him had given her strength.

    At the tourney, he’d fought so fiercely.  Challenge after challenge, he’d faced unflinchingly.  He was wounded right at the end, when Sansa had stood up to cheer for him.  She winced, thinking about that.  He had turned just slightly towards her in the stands - he must have seen her, and in that moment, he was distracted, and that was the moment the Dornishman’s glaive had landed its blow.  Sansa had shouted in surprise, but moments later, the match was over, and the Hound - no, Sandor, she could call him Sandor - had been declared the victor.  No one else had seemed to notice the injury.  Certainly the way Sandor had walked away didn’t betray any discomfort on his part, but she had seen the blood leaking from his mail.  She’d followed him back to his tent and spoken with his squire about it, and he’d removed the mail before her eyes to reveal - yes - a dark gash across his ribs.

    Perhaps it was guilt on her part - after all, he’d been wounded just as she’d cheered, she had distracted him - but after that, she wouldn’t leave him alone about it.  It wasn’t like her, but Sansa could be as relentless as Arya when she wanted to be.  She’d pleaded with him to speak with a maester, but he’d refused.  She’d offered her own Septa’s services, which he’d turned down.  But finally, the next evening, she’d been following him back from the dining hall and he’d stumbled. . . and he relented, and let her look at the damage.  She’d called for Septa Mordane, and together they’d tended his wound, which seemed to have become infected - stubborn man!  They had to stay up by his bedside all night and all the rest of the next day, as he’d fought off a bad fever.

    Sandor had protested at first, but it wasn’t long before the fever overtook him, and then he barely spoke, seemed barely conscious of anything happening at all.  It had been frightening, but Septa Mordane showed her what to do.  She taught Sansa how to fight back against the illness that threatened even the strongest of warriors.  And Sansa could be stubborn, too.

    The man in the bed was mostly silent, but his fever seemed dangerous.  He would thrash about, sweating, or go through periods where he would lie deathly still, and Sansa would fear the worst.  He would occasionally mumble strings of words too low to make out.  Through it all, Septa Mordane somehow remained calm, and from that calmness Sansa learned much.  She helped her Septa keep Sandor cool with cold compresses; she learned about the herbs that were pressed into his wounds before fresh bandages were applied.  She helped lift Sandor’s head so he could swallow the medicine and water they gave him.

    It was there, in those long hours in the firelight of his chambers, that Sansa felt as though she was answering a calling she’d never before heard.  She felt useful - _needed_.  All her nurturing instincts had kicked in and she had found herself thinking, _I could be good at this_.  Septa Mordane spoke about the old war, and how after all, tending wounds could be a useful skill to have if Sansa married someone who led the way in battles.  Sansa listened and absorbed everything.  Knowledge of medicine would not be wasted on her.

    During the day, Septa Mordane encouraged Sansa to take some rest, but she had refused.  Her Septa had dozed off a few times.  Sandor had few visitors; his squire had come to check on him, and had offered to bring anything that was needed.  Otherwise, they were mostly left alone.      The second evening of his illness approached, and Sandor was still in a delirious fever.  Her Septa was called away; she tried to convince Sansa to get some sleep, but Sansa didn’t want to leave his side.  “What if he suddenly takes a turn for the worse?”

    “Well, I’ll not make you come away,” Septa Mordane had said.  “He’s weak as a newborn pup in this state, I know he cannot hurt you.”  Sansa was an innocent girl, and trustworthy; she promised that if there were any trouble, she would call for someone right away.

    Even in his weakened state, there was something thrilling about being left alone with the Hound.  Sansa knew she should not be afraid, and found that she wasn’t; it wasn’t fear that she felt now, rather. . . something else.

    He was, for the moment, quiet, sleeping.  His head still felt hot to the touch.  They had removed his shirt, and had tried all day to keep him cool as they could.  Sansa watched his chest rise and fall.  It wasn’t time to change his bandages yet.  Even so, she felt drawn to. . . to touch him.  Sansa looked around for something to do.

    The squire had brought two buckets of fresh water not long before sunset.  Earlier in the day, they had washed the sweat from Sandor’s body, gently dabbing him with wet cloth; now, Sansa refilled the bowl they had used, and wet a fresh cloth in it.  Slowly, she moved the wet cloth to his chest.

    He shivered then.  She looked anxiously into his face, but his eyes stayed closed.  As gently as she could, she wiped the feverish perspiration from Sandor Clegane’s body.

    She was clumsier at it than Septa Mordane had been, and at first, she worried that she was spilling water everywhere.  But his fever was so hot, she hoped perhaps the extra cold water would do him some good.

    She moved the cloth over his chest, dipping it again in the water when she needed to.  She lifted his arms, and washed his sides, too.  She washed his arms and his neck.

    She looked at his legs and decided she didn’t dare try to wash them, even if they were alone together.  Removing his breeches would be just _too much_.  Septa Mordane had carefully avoided the subject with Sansa - she’d found some errand to send Sansa out of the room when she’d had the squire help Sandor in making water.   _I’m going to have to learn of such things **some** day_ , Sansa thought to herself, but of course, she hadn’t said anything.

    She looked at him in the firelight, wondering if there was anything else she should do.   _Probably just let him sleep_ , she thought.  She sat back in the little chair next to the bed.

    She felt very tired.  Perhaps she did find herself nodding off to sleep a few times.  Each time, she caught herself, forced herself to sit up a little straighter, forced her eyes to stay open.  She concentrated on her patient.  Even in his sleep, he needed her to stay alert.  She stood up and paced the room.  She came back to his bedside and moved a strand of hair back from his face.  She looked at him.

    In the firelight, his face looked . . . different, somehow.  His features were striking.  The burned side of his face, as badly scarred as it was, did not hold for her any of the fear or disgust she had once felt.  Had she ever felt that way?  How?  True, he did not look like other men.  Somehow, the firelight casting dancing shadows over his scars, she thought he looked _more human_ than any other man she had ever seen.  More real.

    Sansa was snapped out of her reverie when the face she watched so carefully took on a sudden grimace.  His body shuddered.  She quickly placed her hand on his forehead and was shocked to find it suddenly cold.  His fever had broken, and now he was chilled to the bone.

    Hurriedly, Sansa placed the blankets that had been discarded under the bed back upon him.  She tucked him in tightly.  She thought of moving him closer to the fireplace, but she knew she would never be able to lift him.

    It hadn’t occurred to her, in the moment, to call for anyone’s help.  She only thought about what she could do to get him warm again.

    The chills were causing him to shiver forcibly.  Sansa put her hand on his shoulder and shook him.  “Ser -” she said - she hadn’t known to call him Sandor yet - “H-Hound, can you move?  I want you to come sit by the fire.”

    No response.  Could he even hear her?

    She moved the buckets that contained the fresh water close to the fire.  She filled the kettle there, thinking she wouldn’t let it boil, just let it get warm enough so she could make him a hot compress for his forehead.  While it heated, she returned to his side.  She tried shaking him again.  This time, he did respond, muttering something nonsensical in his raspy voice.

    She made the hot compress and placed it on his brow.  His shivering calmed, somewhat.  She wondered wildly if she should heat water to make him a bath.   _Nevermind that you could never manage it all by yourself, at least you’re thinking these things through._

    She let her hand run from his forehead down to his chest, trying to feel for his heartbeat through the blanket.  To her shock, he caught her hand there.  Her eyes darted to his face.  His eyes were open, but she couldn’t tell if he was really seeing her.

    He put his arm around her as if to draw her to him.  Septa Mordane had been right, Sansa could feel the weakness in his arms - but she did not resist him.   _He is responding to my warmth_ , she thought.  Perhaps she could warm him herself.

    Sansa didn’t hesitate.  She crawled into the bed with him, pulling the blankets up over them.  She felt her whole body begin to blush as she thought of what she was doing, and then she thought, _good, at least he will be a little warmer_.  Why should she blush?  There was no shame in nursing a patient.  She was still wearing all of her clothes, and Septa Mordane wouldn’t be back until the morning.

    Shyly, she moved her arm over his chest and pulled herself close to him.  The bed was still damp, from a day of his sweat and the bath, such as it was, that she had tried to give him before.  She leaned against his chest and heard his heart beating steadily.  Her hand rested there, in the soft curls of his chest hair.  Glancing back up at his face, she saw his eyes were still open, and shining in the firelight.  This time, she thought he was looking directly at her.

    “Are you. . . are you in pain?”  She could not think of what else to ask him.

    He didn’t say anything, but held her close with one arm.

    She was finding it a little difficult to breathe.  He had stopped shivering, thank goodness.  He was lying very still, looking at her.  She was very surprised when the thought occurred to her that he smelled good.  What a silly thing to think!  But his scent was very. . . manly.  It was not unpleasant.  When Septa Mordane had first unwrapped his wound, the smell had made Sansa turn green, and she thought she would be ill.  Each time they had changed the bandages, it was a little better, but Sansa always cringed.  Now, lying next to him, she was thinking silly thoughts about wanting to bottle his scent.

    His skin felt warmer now, but a healthy warm - not the feverish hot from before.  Should she get out of the bed now?  Looking up into his face, she saw he was still gazing at her.  “Little bird,” he murmured, his first coherent words to her in two days.  “Little bird.”

    She rested her head against his chest and let herself stop thinking.

    Sometime in the night, she had woken, feeling hot and breathless in the stuffy room.  She got out of bed to open the window and let some cool air in.  He did not resist; he was sleeping peacefully.  Still feeling as though she might be dreaming herself, she slipped out of her dress - still wearing her shift - and threw off the blankets.  She would keep him warm enough.  Touching his skin - touching his face, his hands - she could feel that his chills and fever were gone.  His breathing was normal.  Then, in her heart, she knew he would be all right.  His wound would heal.

    She had slept next to him all night, not waking again until morning.  Sansa still couldn’t believe she had done that!  The memory of waking next to him made her heart race.  The intimacy of that moment was something even her favorite songs hadn’t prepared her for.

     And to think, such a moment might not come again for her until . . . until when?  Until she awoke, someday in the far distant future, next to her husband?  She couldn’t imagine Joffrey looking so tender even at his very tenderest.

     The Hound - Sandor - Sandor, Sandor, _Sandor_ \- he had looked at her with eyes that were endlessly deep, a look just for her and her alone.  She wanted to see that look again.  In _his_ eyes.

     Later that day, when the time seemed right, she walked - well, she felt she _flew_ \- down to the training yard, to watch him.  She was glad to see he wasn’t taking any foolish risks, but was instructing his squire in swordfighting from the sidelines.  He looked a little pale, but much better than he had.

     _He will heal.  I saw to that_.  She felt strong and well; she felt happy.  When he finally turned in her direction, she caught his eye and smiled.

     He hesitated, looked away.  Then he looked back, and smiled slowly, too.

     It was a smile just for her.


End file.
